


Editing

by out_there



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-30
Updated: 2004-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will laughs at that comment, because it's the thing to do, and doesn't ask how Sam's holding up. Doesn't ask how in the world is he managing to do the impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Editing

**Author's Note:**

> Preslash Sam/Will, S4, post-Red Haven's on Fire. Challenge was to use the words desultory, silver, crisp and autofocus.

"Flighty?" Will's still reading when he speaks but they've got used to that now. "You want the President to say _flighty_?"

He breifly looks up at her, one of the Laurens, and sees her shrug. "It's a word."

"You're sure?" he asks, skeptically, and isn't surprised that they don't get his sarcasm for what it is. Just a kooky sense of humor.

"It's in the dictionary," the non-Lauren insists. He's surrounded by four interns and three are Laurens, but he has trouble remembering the fourth name. So, inside his head, she's the non-Lauren. He wonders if he thinks of her like that because he's bad with names, or because it seems to make sense. In the back of his mind, Will hears childhood chants. One of these things is not like the other.

"There are a lot of words in the dictionary that I don't want to hear the President of the United States using. Flighty is one of them." He gestures over at the dictionaries on the table and adds, "Find a better word for the idea. Then bring it to me."

He hands the paper back to Lauren (number one), and picks up the next on the pile. This time, he barely reads a paragraph before he's handing the paper back to Lauren (number two). "Care to guess which word the President won't be saying?"

"Autofocus?" To her credit, she looks chargined, her dark head bowed in apology.

"Right the first time," he says, and smiles at her, because she is a bright girl. She just uses strange words. "Why in the world is autofocus appearing in a Presidential comment, Lauren?"

"Because..." she pauses, trying to collect her ideas. He's already noticed that Lauren (number two) tends to be the most thoughtful of the group. "Because you said to write the ideas first, and worry about the words after?"

He almost sighs, but it's caught behind a small smile. "Yeah, but I still meant that you had to worry about the words. You write, then you edit."

"Oh." She makes a small groan of a sound, and leans over to take the slightly crumpled pages from him. "I thought you meant we write, and then we show you."

"You write, then you edit. And then, you show me." She grimaces, as do the other two sitting around the table, so he adds, "It's a good idea. An interesting metaphor. Just, try to make it a little clearer."

"A little more Presidential?" the last Lauren asks with a grin.

"Exactly." He stands up, stretching his legs, and skims over the next page. "Do you two want to try the editing idea as well?" The last Lauren (number three) and the non-Lauren (Stacy? He's too tired to remember.) nod, and take the pages back from him. "In that case, I'm going to get muffins. And possibly chocolate."

He's not much of a chocolate fan, but he's found that three of the four girls are (not the three Laurens, he notes absently) and food is an easy bribe. They're good girls, clever writers, but they still need a lot of work, and a little encouragement. It's generally easier to buy the encouragement.

There's a quick smile from the first Lauren, and the other three bend their heads in concentration, reaching for dictionaries and thesauruses (thesauri?). He makes his way to his office, because chocolate will probably come from a vending machine, which means he needs change.

He sits down and searches his bag for his wallet. Emptying the wallet on to the table, trying to guess if he has enough change or needs more, he catches a glimpse of the time on his watch and remembers he promised to call. It's almost midnight, but in California it's barely nine, so he picks up the receiver and starts dialing.

"Sam Seaborn." There's the noise of the campaign in the background, of people talking and moving and rustling papers. For a brief moment, he wishes he was there, amongst the chaos of the last few days before the vote. Everyone would be running on adrenaline and caffeine, hyped up on the thought of winning and terrified by the unspoken fear of losing. He remembers that feeling well.

In comparison, the White House feels eerily quiet. "Hey."

"Hi Will," Sam says, and Will can feel the warmth of his grin. It's so easy to picture Sam, managing to look harried in a crisp white shirt, beaming as if a good smile is all it takes to turn optimism into reality. Will, like CJ and Josh (like all of Sam's campaign staff), desperately wants to believe that's true.

"Another word for flighty?" He pauses for a second, and thinks that even by White House standards, that's a bit sudden. "The President can't say flighty. I need a better word."

"You're working with the interns again." Will nods dejectedly. Sam's on his cell phone and can't see him, but Sam laughs anyway. "Desultory."

"Desultory. Desultory." He repeats the word, feeling it roll off his tongue, and realises it's perfect. "You know, you could have taken a little longer with that suggestion," he gripes.

"You didn't want an answer?" Sam sounds surprised, but not offended, so it's okay.

"Well, you could have taken a little time. Pretended you had to think about it." He pauses, listening to the distorted sounds of voices in the background. "You're making the rest of us look bad," he adds, teasingly.

Sam chuckles, low and amused. "I'll have to stop doing that."

Will doesn't say that he thinks that's impossible for Sam. It's impossible for this brilliant guy _not_ to make everyone around him seem dull in comparison. "How's the campaign going?"

Sam sighs, and this time Will can't even hear a hint of his smile. "Toby thinks..."

Someone in the background calls out for Sam, and then the sound is muffled. Listening carefully, Will can almost make out the soft thud of a heartbeat, and realises that Sam must be holding his cell against his chest.

Will takes off his glasses and watches the silver frames gleam in the light from his desklamp. He reaches for a tissue, and cleans the lenses, holding the receiver against his ear with his shoulder.

Then the background chatter comes back, and Sam apologises. "Sorry about that."

He shrugs, then remembers that Sam can't see him. "It's the life of a candidate," Will offers, because it is. Sam's running for office, and there are things that take priority over a personal call.

"Yeah, but still... It's rude." Sam yawns, and Will quickly double-checks his timing calculations. He thinks he's right.

"It's only nine o'clock over there, right?" Even though they're states apart, the yawn's still contagious, and Will hears his jaw click.

"Yeah. But the last few days of a campaign don't generally mean a good night's sleep."

"How much sleep have you had?" The background noise is quieter now. Either a group of people have just left, or Sam's left the main room. Will pictures Sam for a moment, walking confidently into one of the back rooms, a serious expression on his face, as if this call is important and shouldn't be disturbed.

"Oh, about seven hours," Sam hedges.

"Hmmmm...?" Sometimes, words can't express the proper level of disbelief.

"Over the last two days," Sam finishes and stifles a second yawn.

The line goes quiet for a minute, and Will thinks about the interns waiting for their snacks, and how long it will take him to find change. How long it will take him to turn their enthusiastic submissions into something acceptable to Toby. "What did Toby say?"

Sam's voice is quiet, and Will wonders if he's keeping Sam up. "About what?"

"Before, you said that Toby said... something. You were interrupted," Will points out.

Sam breathes out, then replies tiredly, "It was just a forecast about the election. No point repeating it." Will wonders what Toby said. Toby isn't exactly known for his pep talk abilities. Sam continues, a little brighter, "We'll know for certain in two days."

"Yeah. Good luck." Will wonders briefly if you're supposed to say that, if it's bad luck to wish someone good luck. He really doesn't know. He doesn't even know if Sam's superstitious. "Or should that be break a leg?"

Sam laughs softly. "Knowing my ability to trip over my own feet, I think I'm safer with good luck." Sam sounds tired again and Will thinks that this campaign is harder on Sam than they realise.

Will laughs at that comment, because it's the thing to do, and doesn't ask how Sam's holding up. Doesn't ask how in the world is he managing to do the impossible.

There's a muffled voice somewhere on Sam's end of the line, and Sam says, "I've got to go, Will. Thanks for calling. It was good hearing from you."

It makes Will smile the same geeky grin he had as a kid, whenever he played 'Dungeons &amp; Dragons' and won. "Good luck, Sam."

"Thanks," Sam says genuinely, and then hangs up. Will listens to the mindless dialtone for a minute, and fights the urge to check on the next flight back to California. Instead, he hangs up the phone and counts out his change. It's not enough for airfare, but it is enough to convince four interns that self-editing is a good habit. For now, that will have to be enough.


End file.
